Departure
by peanutbutterer
Summary: John’s lost a lot of things in his life and he’s managed to survive. He’ll survive this too. JohnElizabeth


"_United flight 7026 to Denver is now boarding at gate twelve_."

The distorted voice from the loudspeaker jars John from his thoughts. Beside him, Radek rises, clutching his bag. Rodney does the same.

Elizabeth sucks in an audible breath and finally ceases her endless pacing. She grabs Radek's arm and tugs him toward her, pressing a kiss to his cheek and promising to visit.

His hand comes reflexively to the place her lips just brushed, then awkwardly runs through his persistently disheveled hair. He forces a smile. "I will hold you to that."

She turns to the next man. "Rodney, I –"

"I know, Elizabeth." He doesn't make her finish. "I'll see you soon."

She nods and wraps him in a tight embrace. "Soon," she promises.

"Colonel," Radek says, extending his hand, "it's been a pleasure working with you."

John takes it and shakes. "Don't be a stranger, Doc."

Radek steps away and John turns to Rodney. There's something in his eyes, something that John is sure is reflected in his own. "This isn't the end," he says because he has to, but the words are hollow and even he doesn't believe them.

Rodney just says, "Sure," and reaches out his hand.

Instead of grasping it John uses it to pull him into an awkward hug.

He doesn't know what else to say.

--

"Is this what it's going to be like now?" John asks Elizabeth as they watch the pair of scientists disappear into the funneling crowd. He follows their heads as long as he can, refusing to turn away until they've disappeared down the gangway.

She wraps her arms tightly around her chest. "Yes."

In front of them, a man says a tearful goodbye to his wife and son and John thinks that the departure gate might be the most depressing place he's ever been; and he's been a lot of depressing places.

He turns to look at Elizabeth. "Will it get any easier?"

The pain in her eyes is all the answer he needs.

They stay until the plane taxies out of sight.

--

He pulls the car into Elizabeth's driveway and turns off the ignition. He takes out the keys and toys with them, the jangling of metal replacing the white noise lost when the engine disengaged.

John ends up inviting himself in for coffee even though he knows she hasn't bought a press yet. It doesn't matter. They both know it's a pretense, so he doesn't bother creating a convincing one.

No one is around that needs convincing. Not anymore.

--

She arches under his hand as it trails along her spine, slick with sweat, like he's done a hundred times before. This time, though, it's different; feels different, tastes different.

The friction is off, the balance is wrong. Maybe it's Earth, he thinks as he continues to move inside her.

He's almost convinced himself that it's due entirely to gravity when he presses a kiss into her neck just where he knows she needs it, where he knows it'll pull a cry from her throat.

She doesn't make a sound.

--

Sgt. Wingfield clears his throat and John returns his attention to the marines. They're standing before him, so wet behind the ears that he imagines a puddle of water pooling at their feet.

"At ease," he manages, the words foreign on his tongue. Formalities were few and far between in Atlantis.

The wide-eyed one asks, "Does it hurt, sir? I mean, can you feel it?"

He thinks of his first trip through the wormhole, of Lt. Ford.

John's lost a lot of things in his life and he's managed to survive. He'll survive this too.

"No, Sergeant. You won't feel a thing."

--

His feet hit the pavement and his footfalls echo in the rhythmic balance created by rubber soles and concrete.

A combination of the altitude and pollution makes it harder to breathe here. At least that's what he's trying to convince himself.

He realizes he's slowed and digs for a quick burst of speed before remembering that Ronon isn't two steps behind him. He has no reason to push.

He slows back down and tries to fill his lungs.

--

"You want another drink?"

Elizabeth takes a moment before glancing over at him. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

He shakes his head. "Never mind." He's not thirsty anyway.

She tosses a few bills on the table and pushes out her chair, dropping her napkin beside her plate as she stands. "I should, uh…"

John nods and presses the pads of his fingers against his empty pint glass. They blanch of their normal pink hue. "Right, yeah."

"I'm going to be out of town for a few days." She offers a one-shouldered shrug. "Family."

He doesn't look up. "Yeah. That's nice."

"I'll see you when I get back."

He nods again. "Sure."

--

He volunteers for a milk run between missions just to get his feet off the ground, but the vibrations of the engine and the whir of the rotors can't produce the comfort they once did.

As the snow-covered landscape of Colorado Springs passes below him, he thinks about Antarctica and the lifetime he's lived since then – and the lifetime he has yet to live.

--

"He'll be fine," the nurse says, gesturing toward her patient. "You can go visit with him."

John nods an acknowledgment before crossing the room.

"Unlucky break, Masters," Sgt. Catalani is saying just as John arrives at the foot of the bed.

The archeologist manages to smirk. "Punny, Cat. Real punny."

Catalani spends an exaggerated moment patting down his pockets. "Anyone got a Sharpie? This cast is just aching for some flair. Sir," he turns to John, "would you like to play tic-tac-toe?"

John forces a grin. It's a good group of men, but they will never be his team.

--

John slips out of her bed and fumbles through the darkness as he gathers up his clothes.

By the time he's pulled on his jacket she's woken. He can hear the sound of her breathing in and out, more shallowly and less rhythmically than when she's fast asleep.

She's awake, but her eyes are closed and she doesn't acknowledge his absence.

He turns away.

--

He picks up a coffee at one of the three Starbucks between his place and the mountain.

He patronized a different one yesterday. He'll try the third tomorrow.

_Change can be good_, he tells himself.

--

"…and the incompetence is blinding. I can't trust these trained monkeys to have an original thought. I either have to draw them a map or do everything myself." He pauses before admitting, "So, you know, same as always."

"I bet you miss Radek."

John can hear Rodney scoff on the other end of the line. "If I do it's only because he was _my_ trained monkey."

"Heartwarming sentiment." He attempts to flip his pin between his forefinger and thumb, twisting it so it turns like a rotor. "You talk to Elizabeth much?"

"On occasion. Why do you ask? Don't you see her every day?"

The pen spins out of control and clatters to the desk. He uses his now free hand to rub at his temple. "No reason."

--

This time when he slips out of her bed he feels especially cold.

He gathers his clothing, piece by piece. He keeps his back to her, but she doesn't bother to feign sleep.

"John." It's not a question and not an answer; it's more of an agreement.

"Yeah." He steps into his boots. "I know."

--

He walks into his apartment and tosses his keys on the table by the door, stripping off his clothes and letting them fall where they may as he weaves his way toward the shower.

He's been standing in the spray for over a minute before he remembers he has to turn up the temperature by hand.

John adjusts the nozzle and soon warm water is there to chase away the cold, but it still doesn't take away the chill. That sensation only burrows deeper.

He slams his palm into the white and blue tiles, causing nothing but more pain.

--

He's saying goodbye to his team and making his way to the door of the bar when he almost runs into her.

"Elizabeth."

"John."

She looks as surprised to see him as he is to see her. And just as uncomfortable, if he reads tightness in the line of her jaw correctly.

"How are you?" she asks.

"Fine." He puts his hands in his pockets. "You?" He takes them out again.

Elizabeth nods. "Good."

The man John didn't even notice standing beside her clears his throat and Elizabeth turns. "John," she introduces, "this is David. David, John."

John doesn't remember sticking out his hand, but apparently he did, because David is shaking it. "Hi."

"I've heard so much about you," David says with a smile. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"I, uh," John stumbles, pausing to rub his palm against the back of his neck. He clears his throat. "And how do you know Elizabeth?"

"We work together," David says, still smiling.

John opens his mouth to say he thought that was his job when he remembers that it's not anymore.

He forces a smile.

--

"Congratulations."

"Thank you, sir."

John shakes his head lightly and puts his hand on Evan's shoulder. "I think it's just John now, Colonel."

Evan frowns, eyes flitting from person to person as he watches old friends and new mill about the party. "It doesn't feel right, does it?"

John's eyes drift to Elizabeth on the far side of the room, smiling as she talks to Rodney. They've spent most of the night circling and mingling and keeping as much distance in between them as the space would allow, like two north poles of powerful magnets. He looks at Evan again. He thinks it feels as right as anything else does these days.

Instead he says, "You've earned it." And he means it.

John tugs at the hem of his service dress and wonders, not for the first time, if he ever earned his.

--

He stands in his kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, sautéing onions and peppers for a quiet dinner alone in his apartment.

As he adds a touch more oil he muses about Earth and independence and a bachelor's life. He tells himself that each one is freeing in its own way. He's not living constantly on the verge of death with monsters at every turn. He's not responsible for the welfare of an entire city.

He's not responsible for the care and maintenance of another heart. He doesn't even have to be responsible for his own.

He opens the refrigerator and grabs a beer.

--

On his way back to the gate, John clenches his fists. Some things don't change, no matter what galaxy you're in.

Catalani's grin is so wide it practically engulfs his entire face. "She was hot, sir."

"And of royal lineage," Wingfield adds. "That makes her even hotter."

John increases his pace, forcing his team to jog to keep up.

--

He reaches for the phone and dials her number. Leaning back into the couch, eyes squeezed tightly shut, he listens to it ring.

Once.

Twice.

He hangs up before the third, slamming the receiver back into the cradle with a silence-shattering clatter.

Thirty seconds later, his phone is ringing. Heart lodged in his throat, he picks it up, slowly draws it to his ear, and forces himself to croak out an awkward hello.

"_Congratulations_," says an automated voice. "_You've just won the opportunity of a lifetime!_"

He sets the phone down again, gently this time, and exhales.

--

He's not sure exactly what happens.

He sees the gun as it's drawn from beneath the long jacket and watches the finger squeeze the trigger. If it wasn't physically impossible, he'd swear he sees the bullet leave the barrel and track a path straight through the crisp morning air.

He doesn't know why he stays rooted in place, but does know that he makes no effort to get out of the way. In that fraction of a second, life spreads itself before him, prone and vulnerable, baring itself completely.

Nowhere in anything he sees does he find the desire to move.

Someone yells, Masters probably, and more shots are fired.

John's hand floats to his gut and he presses down on the wound. Warm, sticky blood seeps onto his fingers, and as he looks again at his hand the world spins once, twice, before turning black.

--

He wakes to the familiar sound of a heart monitor and a pounding in his head that forces his eyes to stay shut.

With his eyes closed he focuses on sounds – footsteps, distant chatter, and the faint but persistent hum of the fluorescent lights.

If it weren't for the sound of those lights he might be able to convince himself he was in Atlantis, in the infirmary waiting for Carson to come give him his standard lecture – the one that always ended with him muttering under his breath about a certain "trouble magnet." Rodney would be complaining to anyone who would listen about the minor injury he sustained in the field, and Teyla would be next to Rodney trying not to roll her eyes and smile. Elizabeth would be in the chair beside John's bed, laptop in her lap and fingers typing furiously – unable to miss a moment of work but stubbornly insisting she be by his side when he wakes.

Reluctantly, he opens his eyes. Doctor Lam is on the far side of the room, talking to a pair of nurses. There's a marine in a bed two spaces down, a fresh cut on his forehead and a doctor stitching him up. Carson's not hovering, Rodney's not whining and Teyla isn't humoring him.

His gaze is drawn to the side of his bed where a lone chair sits empty.

He stares at it as long as he can – until his vision blurs and the pounding in his head forces his eyes to close.

There, in the darkness behind his eyes, the image remains.

--

"The chair was empty."

He's standing at the base of her steps, drenched in rain and chilled to the bone. Thunder rolls in the distance and lightning flashes in his periphery. Elizabeth is hovering in the doorframe, and she's more than a little confused.

"Six days in the infirmary," he says, as if it's an explanation. "You weren't there."

She's immediately concerned. "John, are you hurt?"

He ignores the question. "I know we're a mess, Elizabeth. I know everything's turned upside-down."

Her hand slides down from where it had been gripping the door and drops helplessly to her side.

"Atlantis is gone," he continues. "Carson is gone – Teyla and Ronon are in Pegasus and Rodney's in Nevada. Everything's changed." He runs his fingers through his hair and the resulting spray is lost in the downpour. "But we're here."

"We're not the same people we were, John."

"But we are," he argues, taking a step up toward her. "We're the same." At her doubtful look he continues, "You still raise your eyebrow when you think I'm acting crazy."

She takes stock of her face and lowers her raised brow.

"You still wear your watch the wrong way on your wrist, and it doesn't even tell time." He moves to the stair below her. She's still frowning, but her expression has turned thoughtful and her fingers tuck a curl of hair behind her ear.

"John –"

"You still toy with your hair when you're concentrating." Her fingers still as he reaches for her hand. "And I imagine," he continues as his hand slips from hers into her hair, "you still taste the same." He draws her toward him and kisses her gently, softly.

He pulls away and meets her gaze. "And I still love you."

"And I still love you," she admits quietly. "But there are differences."

"I know."

"It's going to be hard."

"I know that too. I've spent my life fighting, Elizabeth – fighting for the country, the world, the galaxy – I even fought for a different galaxy. This time I'm going to fight for me, for what I want." He brings his free hand up to cup her cheek. "What I want is you."

Elizabeth reaches for him then, touching him gently on the chest, then sliding her hands to his shoulders to pull him up and into her kiss. She does taste the same – she tastes sweet and familiar and he wonders how he thought he needed to let this go; how he thought that when he lost everything else he had to lose this as well. He wonders how he managed even one day without it.

Thunder cracks again and they break apart. He releases her reluctantly and takes a small step back.

"You're all wet," she says and he's suddenly aware that he's still standing in the downpour and she's just under the eve of her building.

He smiles. "You're not."

She smiles back. "No, I'm not."

"Can I –" he says as she says, "Would you –"

He laughs, and for the first time in months feels alive again.

She steps into her building and swings open the door. "Come inside, John."

And he does.


End file.
